The Soldier Pawn
by EnigmaticMemory
Summary: The pawn is the chess piece of the lowest value. The pawn is a metaphor of what soldiers are like to those who are in power. Like pawns, we soldiers are expendable pieces. We are also expected to only follow orders...not assess our feelings with it.


**A/N: Surprise, surprise... will you look at that. I'm not insipid after all. I guess it's the heightened state of panic that I might never write again. So ehhh...**

**Disclaimer: As usual...Nope, nada, Nein, I do ****NOT**** own Tekken.**

* * *

><p>I bolted across the deserted street and immediately took cover amidst the rubble. Gunshots were heard in the distance and I held my semiautomatic rifle close to me as I pressed the tactical headset in my ear.<p>

"This is Alexandersson. We've neutralized the main infantry unit, but there's another platoon advancing in this position; we need immediate evac."

The pebbles and the rocks on the ground suddenly trembled and I felt a tremor; I peered at the side of the wreckage to take a look at the possible source. They've brought some heavy artillery with them. There was no time to lose and my ammunition was running low; I definitely can't fight with my fists this time and my unit only comprised of a dozen men. Either way, we have already completed the mission and I've stalled them long enough for my unit to get into the rendezvous point to await extraction.

I got to my feet once again and dashed to meet up with my men at the rally point. Bullets whizzed over my head; I crouch-ran along the rubble for cover while holding my semiautomatic above my head and started firing indiscriminately. Only one bullet may have penetrated the skull of my enemy...doesn't matter, really.

Almost nothing matters in the war zone...

In war, in the battle field...there is no past, no future...only the present.

Personally, I wouldn't care if your favorite past time _was_ to don a white pointed mask and promote white supremacist beliefs and throw burning crosses at someone else's yard. I certainly could care less if you _will_ be the next holder of the seat of papacy. I only care is that if we can evade all the bullets, complete the mission and get out alive—_now_.

What matters in the combat zone is the here and now, and that we're all equal. Once the first bullet goes right through our head it's all the same: we're dead.

My headset cackled to life; a pilot informing me that he was near our location. True enough, my unit's salvation descended from the skies; the Chinook's rotors agitated the wind and gusts of sand whirled in the air, momentarily hindering my line of vision. As I blinked for visibility, an RPG zoomed towards the Chinook.

"RPG!" I yelled in warning. I leapt forward, toward the hail of bullets, in order to negate the incoming explosive. It detonated upon impact on the wreckage a foot away from the aircraft. I looked over my shoulder to see whether any of my men had been harmed; those who hadn't boarded the chopper crouched down to protect themselves from the debris.

The enemy's fire was intensifying every second we dawdled.

"Move, move, move!" I shouted as I reloaded what little ammunition I had and started firing once more at the advancing platoon.

When I saw the last of my men had boarded into the Chinook, I grabbed a grenade, snatched off its safety pin and pitched it towards the enemy.

The explosion was thunderous, but I didn't look back to see how much damage I had dealt; I dashed towards the Chinook and heaved myself to its compartment just in time as its door closed. As the chopper went airborne, there was a series of deafening explosions; evidently, two more of the Zaibatsu's aircrafts provided us a much more sufficient cover for us to be taken back to base safely.

Relief spread over me as I sat, panting. The adrenaline was gone and I felt at ease. We were safe...for now.

Once the Chinook had gained altitude, I stood up and sat down next to Tougou and exhaled heavily. Tougou removed his helmet and so did the rest of my men.

"Unbelievable..." Tougou murmured.

"What is?" I asked.

"You jumping _towards_ enemy fire," he commented. "Officers your rank had never done anything like that."

Some of my men stared at me in disbelief and while others in subtle awe; apparently, they still weren't accustomed of my habit of rushing towards a hail of bullets.

"That's what anyone would've done," I answered nonchalantly.

"Permission to speak, sir, but that was really daring of you," one of the soldiers said.

Intrepid? Brave? Selfless? No, I don't think so. I shrugged. It's just another day at work.

I am not about to give myself the title of "hero" for simply signing on the dotted line. Sure, there's a good amount of soldiers who do their job, but still go above and beyond to make sure they protect civilians of an invaded country. This is how life of a soldier goes. Soldiers have families that they left behind so that they will serve their country, but for my case, this organization. How selfless of them to think about their duty before themselves and their loved ones...It's a sacrifice they need to make.

Sacrifice. It's a trivial matter to a soldier; every nook and cranny of our occupation requires sacrifice...no matter how trivial or inane it may seem.

A soldier sacrifices everything for the sake of the nation. Soldiers live miles away from their families while he gets into the jaws of death while carrying out his duties.

Family...Before and after every mission, soldiers usually call and write letters to their fathers, mothers, siblings, friends and lovers just to let them know that they were still there and had survived whatever is thrown at them.

Surveying them made me think about my own family. The only kin I cared about my whole life was my mother...what I had found out about my father was he was an affront to all that is good in this earth. I simply discarded that intention of introducing myself as a lost descendent of his clan. But returning to Sweden wasn't what I wanted. My mother was long gone and I had no correspondence outside this organization...I had no one to call to, no one to write to. She's in a place where I could not call or write to her; she's alive in another universe, living another _better_ life.

Family...This is my new home.

After my mother's death, the closest thing I have that is like belonging to a descent family was my men. They were the only thing that keep me on the ground. They follow me wherever I go, do whatever I command them to, yet you have to look after them and ensure their safety in every mission. It's like having a large number of younger siblings. And so as siblings—

"No one gets left behind," A phrase that I always reprise to the men at large before we engage in every mission. My men _are_ my family...and that's what family is all about. No one gets forsaken or forgotten. And everyday this family grows.

But it is undeniable that I have killed men who are also part of a different family. And I know just how it feels to lose a family member. Every "heroic" deed I've done cloaks the fact that I've ordered good men to their deaths...

"What's it like?" a boy asked me. He was no older than eighteen and had just entered the organization's army; he knew it had more grit, more "bad-ass" (as he puts it) and more dominant than the country's own armed forces.

"Is what like?" I retorted. I knew I sounded quite rude, but I had nothing personal against the boy. The lines of boorishness and courtesy are blurred in the army; they are seen as a portmanteau.

"Fighting," he said; his enthusiasm was no longer controlled and it shone through his eyes.

I told him bits of it. Without any more questions, he served in my unit and I was his commander. The other men thought that they could use another grunt to absorb the gunfire; I guess that's why they weren't too touchy of letting him in. He was very young and the other soldiers laughed at his face...but criticisms simply bounced off him; the arduous and cruel nature of war and his seasoned comrades did not deter him at all. I knew that it's not right to belittle the boy, but I'm not a mother to mollycoddle someone in this outfit.

"Ever shot someone before?" I asked him as we prepped for our first mission together.

"Negative, sir." he replied.

"Then this is your lucky day," I said as I loaded my own firearm. "You give them one in the head and two in the chest. You understand?" The boy nodded nervously. I smiled grimly. "Have fun. And remember: no one gets left behind."

Surviving his third mission eventually earned him the respect with the rest of his unit. He was like a puppy, so eager to please, so eager to fight. Every soldier so young usually start off like that.

But how they end up varies.

"It's the femoral artery—" the medic told me. It was one of those missions where we were under heavy enemy fire and had to await an accommodated extraction, and the boy took a bullet to his thigh.

The medic said that we have to open the wound to get the bullet out, unfortunately he ran out of morphine to numb the pain. I was no nurse and I definitely had no proper medical training, but one thing is for sure: when you get shot, wherever it is, without any proper equipment, you're screwed. Sure enough, when I assisted in keeping the wound open and the boy passed out from the unimaginable pain, the medic looked at me straight in the eyes.

I knew the boy would soon bleed to death since the bullet had perforated the second largest artery in his body...I've seen it before; if we couldn't get him to a hospital within half an hour..._ He_'_s gonna die_. _There's nothing we can do anymore_.

I didn't want to believe it; I can do something to save this boy. I grabbed the radio and asked for assistance.

"We're taking heavy enemy fire, running low on ammo and I have one who needs immediate medical attention. I'm requesting an immediate medevac."

My superior informed me, in a very nonchalant tone, that it would take half an hour to mobilize a rescue squad. I didn't have half an hour.

"MAN _DOWN_!" I screamed into the mouthpiece. The radio cackled to life to relay another reply.

Half an hour. Tops.

For that half agonizing hour, I watched the crimson fluid blossom in the gauze. For that half agonizing hour I hoped that, in some form of miracle, the bleeding would stop.

When my unit was finally rescued and escorted back to base, I wondered what it would have been like if that boy came back alive, if he had survived that wound. Would he turn into a more mature young man? In five or six years, would he start a family and tell his children what he had gone through?

Nevertheless my "what ifs" and "woulds" will forever be "what ifs" and "woulds". He was the youngest casualty I ever had on my list.

"It wasn't you who squeezed the trigger at his direction," said Tougou. "You didn't tell that bullet to go straight to his thigh. It's not your fault. We did what we could, but it was out of our hands."

Even if it means going to hell and back, I would be more than willing to do it for the sake of bringing back the lives of my men. There are times I wish I could be a supernatural being that can endow an impenetrable shield for my men so that each and every one of them could return back to base safely. I wondered what the boy's parents were doing right now and what they would feel if they found out their son was killed in action. I wondered what they would say if they found out that I was the commander of his unit...that it was _I _who ordered him to partake in the mission.

"That kid trusted you and so do we. It's not up to you who get shot or where the bullet should land. That's war, it just happens. We never blamed you for whatever shit that happened," said Tougou. "_Never_, you hear me?"

I raised the glass to my mouth and drained it. The boy's death struck me the most that I least expected it...

"Pull yourself together, man. There are gorgeous dames out and about tonight. You look like you could use a one-night stand."

I glowered at Tougou. He sure does have the audacity to say something like that at a time like this. But I knew what kind of person he was and his real intention of saying those words: he was looking at me with the corners of his lips curling. He burst out laughing and to my surprise I chuckled and shook my head, but I still poured myself another glass.

It's not the men who never blame me for what happened. I blame myself. Funny, I finally see why my mother found comfort in the bottles of bourbon, vodka, tequila, whiskey, beer or what the hell ever is available in front of me now. I'd probably drop like a rock when I hit my cot later. By the next morning, I'll wake up with a hangover that cleaves my head into two which will make me forget why I felt like crap. But really...

Move on. There's another mission; the world doesn't stop turning when one of my men dies...there will be new recruits tomorrow and I better show grit to let them know that I do not take their lives for granted. I knew they won't feel confident knowing their unit commander looks like a drama queen at the death of one or is intoxicated whilst strategizing. Intoxicated men see double. Eventually, it'll cause more deaths...and in the long run, more drinking.

All those liquors had not fully drowned out the guilt, but it did a very good job dulling my sense of logic. Guilt was the immaterial substance that kept me sober as I wobbled to the morgue. I saw his name tag in one of the black body bags. I zipped it open. It was simply illogical talking to a corpse, and yet I told him how sorry I was and that I'd tell his parents that he fought really hard, that he was a good soldier and that he was very brave. I patted his cold shoulder before I zipped the body bag close.

I eventually got used to it that it became much more like a routine...like taking a bath in the morning, combing your hair and brushing your teeth...Even though those routines might seem trivial...it's essential...just make it quick. In war, there is no time to grieve for fallen comrades. The time came when I no longer need the aid of alcohol to quickly neutralize the guilt. Now that I stop and think about it, it's so bizarre. People who aren't used to this outfit would probably cringe and snarl at how insensitive I am.

Insensitive. Cruel. Apathetic.

Whatever the adjectives used for what it's like in the military...in war.

Nevertheless, let's be realistic. This event will lead to that, that tactic will have this much casualty. You cannot stop deaths from happening and all you can do as of the moment is to take their remains back to base and grieve later.

The only way to compensate for the death of my men is to ensure that they had not died for nothing. So, forge on.

Being a soldier seems like a sacrifice. It's not only your life that is on the line for the sake of duty, but also your understanding of human nature and the purpose of humanity in this world.

For those who cannot fully comprehend of the true nature of war, it can be easily understood as a chess game. The board is set with foot soldiers, pawns, on the front lines. Soldiers like me. Whilst much more powerful pieces such as the bishops, the King and the Queen, people who are in power, are behind them.

The pawns...the soldiers are the first who are the first to absorb the attacks of the enemy.

Reset the board for a new mission, new strategy needs to be devised or revised. Precious pieces are situated safely behind whilst the pawns, the pieces are at the front. Merely throwaway pieces that will not merit a defeat if too many of them are lost in the game of war.

What these people in power do not know that these disposable pawns aren't bereft of life. They are people with a different identity out of their uniforms. I have killed many men without even knowing their name or what they have done in their life. They were probably a father, a son, a husband, a brother, a friend or a lover of someone...Like the men that I have killed in the line of duty.

But you don't see it that way. In war, killing means winning and winning means going back to base...going back home. Going back to your own family...

A soldier's purpose is to serve and protect. Do those duties cloak the purpose of killing? I suppose it's not only life that is the only throwaway thing in a soldier...but also their set of morals as well.

As it was once said that to kill in a war is not a whit better than to commit ordinary murder.

My life seems to be beset with ironies...

I could quit. But here's the thing... Wars will never be gone in this world and the role of a soldier is to protect those who cannot fight even though that it sounds ironic to kill for peace. Every soldier has a role and every role has a purpose.

If those men who are in power had seen through my eyes on what war was like, they would be more careful of their words and actions. I always hope that sometime in the future that these wars would be much more controlled.

They might or might not do as I would like them to. These politicians are most of the time never careful of their words and actions...and they will never see the war zone through my eyes...

In the thick of battle, adrenalin rushes through your veins like a drug, numbing you momentarily from the pain and fear. And when the barrage of bullets finally cease...reality gradually washes over you and the sounds of turbines, rotors and heavy artillery traversing wanes and that's when the silent cries of the other face of war becomes piercing.

The carnage. Every once in a while I survey the aftermath of every battle I have gone through...

Medics are tending to the wounded, blood spurting from puncture wounds, soldiers and civilians alike lost a limb or two, while those who were burned...I can see the scorched flesh peeling along with their uniform. The mixed stench of burnt and charred flesh, exposed innards and gun powder hung in the air...

Death festers in the combat zone. But I have faced death so many times that it doesn't bother me as it used to. Due to the endless influx of missions which had exposed me to various combat zones and the extent of human cruelty, my stomach, empathy and mercy hardened that now I can not only look death straight in the eye, but also stare it down as well.

The sight of the combat zone is sickening, almost too unbearable to watch and feel. Sometimes I just want to close my eyes and wish for everything to just disappear...it's like a nightmare...too surreal to exist. And like a nightmare, you'll eventually wake up from it and dismiss it as a figment of your imagination.

That nightmare is habitually forgotten by the nervous cheer of a soldier's first survived combat, when the men punch the air, cheer, smile and slap one each other's backs as if everything's over, but there's the sinking depression of a soldier's second combat, when he realizes the fighting doesn't stop at one battle...there is more and more after that.

Battles go on forever...No one can appreciate the pleasantries of peace without being aware of the savagery of war. No one will hear the end of it...

Only the dead have seen the end of war.

And those who are still alive...The board is set for another mission, and my men and I are the pawns stationed at the front lines.

Hero, they say? That word is already thrown around so often it's already rusty. It doesn't have a meaning anymore. They forget that I have killed too...There is nothing heroic in the actions of taking lives...

I was never bothered of who would take the next seat as the CEO of the Zaibatsu. I may have pried at certain points about their intentions, but it had never threatened the harmony of the world.

The man who took the seat seemed _idealistic_ than his predecessors. I stood beside him in my fatigues as he spoke amidst the microphones of the mass media...televising his purpose across the globe.

_With overwhelming power at hand_, _I shall put an end to everything_.

His eyes blazed with purpose. No, not idealistic. Simply...

Young. Arrogant. Foolhardy. Just merely a boy who had too much power in his hands.

Whatever he intended to do with the vast resources and military power the Zaibatsu posses, was not of my concern at that time... I was a soldier...I was merely expected to follow orders no matter how terrible they are...

"Confirm that last," I said, pressing the tactical headset on my ear, not exactly sure of what my commander's order was.

My superior repeated the codes and the objectives of the mission. I narrowed my eyes.

"We don't engage any unarmed civilians," I said, reminding my superior.

"When you're sent out, you do your occupation. War is your occupation, do you understand that?" my superior answered coldly. "And in war, there are no innocents who take part in it."

"With all due respect, sir, we aren't engaging any armed insurgents; these are unarmed civilians and this mission can do a devastating damage on the peace treaty."

My superior's voice didn't falter; it remained cold and undaunted.

"You have your orders, soldier. Carry them out."

The line went dead.

It's true. Soldiers follow orders. I'm expected to follow orders...not question them. My superiors do not see that we soldiers are also human...that we feel...that we _think_; they believe that we are mindless puppets just conditioned to kill.

There is nothing wrong with speaking the truth. I am not saying that soldiers are necessarily aware that we are being used as pawns for the corporations. Most, I bet, don't.

I'm beginning to wonder whether starting this war is justified. How many innocents have we killed? How many more have to die?

I sat in the silence of my office, wallowing in contemplation. A knock on the door broke my reverie.

"Come in."

Tougou came in and saluted me.

"At ease," I said dismissively.

"Permission to speak freely, Captain—"

"Oh come on, Tougou. You can say what you want to say; don't patronize me."

Tougou nodded once, all formalities disappeared, and continued. "Lars, what the hell is really going on? We're engaging cities that have no cases of insurgencies and in countries with civil war, we're just making things worse; it's like we're just putting out the fire with gasoline."

"Seven hundred thousand dead and counting," I said nodding. "This isn't war...this is genocide."

My expression was blank; I was neither angry nor cheerless. Tougou looked at me questioningly without hinting any surprise at the tone I had just spoken in... I wasn't apathetic, I was just tired.

True. I have been to numerous wars, however the circumstances at hand makes all the difference...

"We can just continue playing along like everything's lovely while we watch in CNN or BBC the world is being destroyed...or we can do something about it."

"You could lose your command position." Tougou reminded me.

"So be it." I replied promptly with a firm tone. Tougou seemed to have predicted my answer for the corner of his mouth curled into a small smile.

"I knew you'd say that," said Tougou. "We know we'll survive under your command. We're waiting on you."

If I was going to be branded as a rebel for assessing what was wrong with these recent missions, so be it; I'd rather be a rebel with the respect and gratitude of the men who are under my command. If there is a crisis, I don't freeze. I have to move forward and in doing so, my men also move forward...another step, another achievement, another victory. These men...they are not under the command of a puppet, but a soldier...These men will not fight and die without a reason.

This war...the killings will never stop until the CEO of the Mishima Zaibatsu or the G Corporation will be stopped.

"Gentlemen, I intend to put you in harm's way. I disassociate myself from the Mishima Zaibatsu and their crusade of carnage around the globe. Any man who does not wish to join this cause, step away right now."

No one moved. No one twitched. No one doubted.

"Then let this be our liberation," I said, my voice resonating with finality.

So the chess game of the CEO had an unexpected turn of events...the pawns in the game decided to flout the command given to them. The pieces are moving without his command.

I am no compliant pawn.

I ponder. I feel. I reason.

I am a soldier.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **__This is my first Lars one shot. I hope it's good enough. I'd really like to draw Lars holding a semiautomatic gun...Guess my dormant DeviantArt will have some use...Later. Wrote this at the wee hours of the morning. To be edited. :P_

_Thank you for reading. :)_

**Quotations: **

"_Only the dead have seen the end of war_." –_ Plato_

"_To my mind, to kill in a war is not a whit better than to commit ordinary murder_." – _Albert Einstein_


End file.
